


Grace

by luvkurai



Series: Religion [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, God Complex, M/M, Religion Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Worship, kind of an AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:41:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvkurai/pseuds/luvkurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faith need not be received with mercy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grace

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second and final part of the Religion series. I highly recommend reading the first part before reading this one.

If someone had accused Hannibal (daringly) of having a god complex a few months earlier, he would have outwardly denied it, politely of course, and inwardly fumed at the idea. Now, the latter of the two reactions would be quite different.

Though he is not entirely sure when it began, he is at least certain it has something to do with his naïve Will. He takes pain with pleasure, takes everything Hannibal gives him, alacritous. Even the way he holds the cock inside him attests to his complete, submissive surrender. His ass pulses around him, and while the pain of the angle Hannibal enforces must be prevalent, he makes no complaint, tries to still his quivering knees so that Hannibal does not see.

Hannibal desires intensified friction, wants to stretch Will’s hole until the man beneath him bleeds and is unable to sit in comfort for a week, but he forces himself to still. He awaits Will’s answer to the question: _Do you feel worthy, my dear William?_ The question is general, more sardonic than serious, but he still wants a response. If the boy thought it was rhetorical, Hannibal’s lack of movement and stony silence should convince him otherwise. In the meantime, he can suffer.

On cue, Will pushes backwards, upwards. He manages to receive another half inch of penetration before Hannibal closes his hand around the scruff of his neck, a warning. Will whines, reminding Hannibal, delightedly, of an abused animal. There is something beautiful about it, which Hannibal will dwell on, with fondness, later. But still, there is no answer.

He withdraws completely, tightens his grip and flips Will back over, tugging him from his prostrate position. Hannibal is momentarily distracted by the unashamed reverence in his eyes, as if Hannibal’s mere willingness to fuck into him is an extraordinary compliment. “ _No..._ ” Will’s expression collapses on itself, the word itself is a sob, echoes throughout the quiet room.

He plunges back in, no hesitation. Watches Will’s eyes roll upwards as pleasure consumes him.

Hannibal does believe in a deity, though not in the organized worship of one. He appreciates fine things, and while some are certainly manmade, far more occur naturally. Twists of fate, poetic opportunities, the sound of his name on Will Graham’s lips, to name a few.

Hannibal pulls back slightly, listening to the sound of Will moaning and gasping for a moment, before sharply thrusting back in.

“ _Hannibal._ ” The word is small and breathy when it comes in the haze of sex. It is a plead, a prayer, one which Hannibal hears more with interested curiosity than with any intention of pacifying it.

“Why is that, Will?” This is Hannibal’s payment; this is what he gets out of this relationship. If he desired only sex, he could seduce the younger man, could manipulate him to the point of collapse, or, if he chose not to wait, could take him by force. But that is not all he desires of William Graham. He wants his heart, his soul, wants to mold him until he retains nil but the flesh, the guts of his former self. He requires Will’s emotions, served willingly in a silver chalice—as would sacramental bread of the Eucharist.

“There’s a monster inside me.”

The idea is preposterous, Hannibal knows. Will, Freddie Lounds, and the majority of the world may believe that Will sits on the precipice of destruction, on the threshold of inevitably vicious homicide, but Hannibal knows better. He knows that while Will may have the _potential_ for such things (from the close contact his mind makes with those who have pointedly crossed said threshold), the monster has not yet been born. Will keeps the space inside him that shall become the monster’s womb barren by balancing the horrors in his subconscious with virtuous actions in his waking life.

Hannibal tells him this, “There is no such thing.” Does not bother to keep the indulgent chuckle from his tone.

Will’s face, previously sullen with horror and shame, changes instantly. Hannibal’s words have denied his beliefs, denied his fears. And what reason has he to distrust his god?

Hannibal rocks his hips forward, trapping Will’s cock tightly between them. He enforces eye contact as he presses against Will’s prostate, alternating between light nudges that make Will twitch and battering blows that make him scream.

He imagines that most god-complexes are born from the holder’s responsibility in the creation of something—or someone. Hannibal can certainly commiserate with this, as he looks down at Will, sees him quivering around his cock even as images of violence and murder flutter across his effortlessly legible eyes like the most beautiful of silent films. He is not haughty enough to believe that his work is done. His Will continues to evade the more malevolent of his lessons. If he were the god of Christianity, of Islam, of Judaism, he estimates that this would be, say, the third day of Will Graham’s formation (or reformation).

“Hannibal, please, please, I need to—” Will’s voice is quiet. Hannibal would not know to listen for it if not for the vibrations that course through their connected bodies when Will drags in an immense breath before speaking.

“I’m not sure you deserve to cum, William.” Hannibal must exert some effort to keep the smirk out of his voice. “You did not make any real progress on your case…”

Will shakes in shock, his need obvious in every element of his existence. Hannibal has forbidden Will from orgasm before, his punishment the one time he disobeyed was warning enough. The scars will never disappear entirely. He knows that if Hannibal forbids him, he will not cum. The despondency at the thought is clear in his eyes, in the quiver of his lips.  

“He...he kills with poison… because it—it’s inserted…syringe—metaphoric for sexual intercourse—“

Hannibal pauses in his movements. Will obviously doesn’t actually believe this, his entire body is pulled tight with the lie and he refuses to meet Hannibal’s eyes. Furthermore, the idea that a killer of prostitutes and erotic dancers would go through the trouble of a metaphor for rape, rather than actually raping his victims, is ludicrous. Hannibal knows this, but that Will would say such a thing is testimony of his desperation. And besides, Hannibal can always punish him later, when it turns out that he is wrong, will relish in doing so.

“You may cum.” Hannibal gives the underside of Will’s cock a firm stroke, simultaneous with a sharp jab against his prostate, and he is undone, streams of semen slapping against Will’s chest, splattering up against Hannibal’s shirt.

Will commences his typical post-coital posture—lax beneath Hannibal while his lips murmur words of thanks too quiet for him to hear. He continues to pound into the other man, enjoys the exhausted twitches his asshole gives, even now. He closes one hand around Will’s neck, twists the other around the base of his limp cock. With an iron grip, he brings Will’s erection back, too quickly for him to realize what is happening.

He pulls another orgasm from his Will, this one driven brilliantly by pain. Hannibal cums at the same time, feeling Will’s hole spasm around his cock. He rides out his orgasm buried deep, bites into Will’s shoulder about halfway through it for the sake of that delicious splash of crimson blood on his tongue.

When his cum fills the man, Hannibal raises his head from Will’s flesh. His tongue flicks out, licking at the resonant red liquid. He does not release Will’s neck.

To say that he does not consider letting Will die in his hands, in this moment, would be a lie. It is as attractive an idea as any. The clean up would not be difficult, he could easily make it look as if Will became angry at something in their session and stormed off. Given the long list of cases under Will’s belt, an abduction-plus-murder would not be particularly unlikely.

Because he believed what he said, to Will, the day he extracted that magnificent confession ( _I liked killing Hobbs_ ). God certainly felt powerful, when he destroyed a handful of his worshippers, ironic as they praised his merciful grace.

Will shudders, tries to look at Hannibal with acceptance but cannot stop from looking frightened, imploring silently for his life. His eyes only barely remain open.

Hannibal will undoubtedly feel powerful when he destroys his Will someday, when he feels the man’s blood in his palms, when he sees the life leave his perfectly expressive eyes. When he tastes the sure-to-be magnificent flavor of his heart on his tongue.

But that day is years away, at least. For now, a taste is all he desires.

His pulls his hands from Will’s neck, watching as the life returns to his face. The man looks dazed, confused and unsure what has just happened. The first orgasm took everything out of him, the second, paired with agonizing asphyxiation, has temporarily destroyed him.  

For now, Hannibal accepts Will Graham’s worship, reciprocates it with tempered grace.

**Author's Note:**

> luvkurai.tumblr.com


End file.
